Christmas is coming
Whenever I think of Christmas, which is, on and off, from about September til February - - because I have to decide whether I’ll go to England to see my relatives, and that requires planning ahead, and then, if I don’t go actually at Christmas this means I tend to go in the New Year, and then return to work jet lagged, causing me to feel exhausted until Valentine’s Day — as I said, whenever I think about Christmas I’m tempted to recall one of the finer ones.
When I was about 16 I spent Christmas with my parents in Majunga, Madagascar.
At the time the British Air Force had a base there, and flew patrols over the Mozambique Channel to monitor whether or not Ian Smith’s Rhodesia was getting oil shipped in. My father commanded this patrolling operation. Presumably if the large, lumbering aircraft that clambered into the sky every other dawn had ever found such a ship, it would have done suitably menacing things and called up the Navy frigate to intercept. As things turned out British governmental policy was being subverted by a certain British oil company, which illegally sent millions of barrels via an overland pipeline, thus making a mockery of sanctions and reinforcing segregation in the process. But we didn’t know that then.
So there we were, placed on a steamy tropical paradise with almost nothing Christmas like to see, and nothing available in the shops (what shops? There was an open market, a bakery, a fish market… but no shops). What we had were 80 miscellaneous airmen; two, count them TWO, large obsolete aircraft called Shackletons from which we could usually get one flying aircraft three times a week if we moved important bits like radar to whichever plane was in better condition, and a large population of friendly polynesian-type folks who were fascinated by our ‘white’ ways.
Miles from home, miles from anything ‘traditional’, we had a wondrous Christmas. If you’ve ever heard 17 slightly drunk airmen singing ‘Silent Night’, the rich harmonies echoing over the tin rooftops of shanty town, waking the dogs, and spurring the bullfrogs on to greater belches of sound, you may get a ghost of a sense of what I mean.
Did we miss our relatives? I supose we might have. I think for most of us it was just so good to be able to be present in the moment, look around, and say - by God, this is a beautiful place and I am so grateful to be alive. In its own way it was a holy day. That was what I felt, anyhow.
Merry Christmas.
on December 19th, 2007 at 11:05 pm
Sounds magical! And may we all have the same awe and pleasure wherever we are this Christmastime!
on December 20th, 2007 at 2:51 am
When I think of your commitments to students and family and to your own standards of excellence, my mind boggles.
In a way, despite its complexity, your holiday in Madagascar sounds like a simpler time.
My wish for you in 2007 is one more “wondrous Chritmas.”
Happy holidays, Allan.
MLou
on December 20th, 2007 at 1:14 pm
Thank you for these heart-warming comments on this snowy day. I was a little afraid to write about Madagascar at all, since it seems so hard to do any sort of justice to it at all. Even at the time we knew we were in some kind of odd time-warp, in a place untouched by so many of the mounting ills of the world. The revolution a couple of years later didn’t help, either. Still, I google majunga for images and found some of the familiar sights, including a mention of Madame Chabaud - who ran the only bar in town (also the local brothel, next door) - and even the Katsepe ferry was pictured. This battered item is a 1944 army landing craft that I thought must have sunk long ago. Since there is no dock at Katsepe it just runs up on the beach and everyone clambers off. From its rusted prow I watched manta rays scud beneath the waves. Behind me, in a truck, were trussed up, live, three wild boars, whose wicked little eyes said something else about nature.
Paradise mislaid.